because you're a coward

I spend days upon days trying to distract myself away from things I don't want to admit. I stall things that are inevitable and I manage to convince myself that I'm the wrong one. I hate so many things about myself that don't really even exist. I even hate that I hate them. I implode. I waste every second of my life trying to not waste it, but not actually doing anything at all. I scribble things in invisible ink, before quickly scratching them out and throwing the paper into the void underneath the passenger seat. I'm simultaneously like concrete and air. I'm gelatin. I'm made of high fructose corn syrup. My nutritional value is a thing of a past that I can't even remember. Do I write for attention? Do I actually want to express something? Do I feel some obligation to be "artistic" or "meaningful"? Am I letting this all come out of the crack in my skull and does the crack actually exist or is it all just smoke? Do I like it when I am in pain because it makes me feel human again? When I do these things, does it hurt so much because when I get down to my foundations, do I find that there is nothing there? Am I just the lowest form of subatomic particle, sufficiently comprised of absolutely nothing at all? Am I only defined by my actions? Is that okay? Should I end now? Do I really not believe anything at all? Yes, the answer is yes.